White Blood
by itsbrittanyann
Summary: "Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave." After losing everything during the initial throws of the apocalypse, Negan was certain that he was untouchable; an invincible man in impossible circumstances. That was, until, the day that Arat left.


Mocha colored skin, the softest thing he can remember touching since this world of his went to hell, gives ever so slightly with each drag of the pad of his finger across the curve of her hip. The motion elicits an array of goosebumps, and the sweetest sound of laughter fills the room. It's a sound that makes him smile; a genuine expression that he hasn't truly bestowed upon someone in a _very_ long time. A hand reaches down to push his own away, but that's never deterred him before, and it sure as hell ain't going to deter him now. A huff of air is expelled into the otherwise quiet room as his fingers once again ghost over the curves of her hips. He's desperate to hear that laughter again, and as if right on cue, she relents.

"Stop it. Negan!" More laughter, and he fuckin' _swears_ that he could just lie here and listen to the sounds of her joy until the day that he dies.

Again, her hand slaps at his, this time successfully pushing his away from her hips to spare her the agony (or perhaps she considers it a secret pleasure) of the ticklish sensation that finds her each and every time his hand travels to that area. He loves that beneath Arat's abrasive nature, crass remarks, and straight up brutal truths, he's managed to find one _tiny_ little weakness, as trivial as it is. Their affair hasn't lasted long, in fact it only began the day that she all but tackled Rosita to the ground with the threat of ending her life when Rosita attempted to end his.

It began in a moment of heated passion that very same day. She'd come to visit him; wanted to check in on him to make sure that he was okay both physically and mentally, and as usual, he was "just fuckin' dandy," as he liked to put it. She supposes that if she had another weakness besides her reluctant admission of being ticklish, it would be that she cared much more than she'd like to admit for Negan. It was a respect thing, mostly, but there had always been something brewing beneath the surface. She'd turned down his initial advances upon joining the Sanctuary, but on this particular day after seeing his life nearly being taken right before her very eyes, it put things into perspective for her. It must have done the same for Negan as well. Before either of them knew it, limbs were intertwined with black bed sheets as their slick bodies lie breathless and tired beside one another.

It had been nearly a month since that incident, and just about every day since then, the pair met in secrecy to carry on with their affair. Never once had Negan asked Arat to be his wife, and never had it crossed her mind to inquire about becoming one. Truth be told, she never wanted the offer, and he respected her far too much to force her to sit on the sidelines for the sake of a title. He needed her, both on the battlefield and off, and she supposed that she needed him just as much.

* * *

"Arat! Arat, you listen to me, you hear me?" There's an urgency to Negan's voice, and an undertone of sheer terror as he holds her limp body in his arms. "Arat!" Her body convulses within his grasp, and looking up to Dwight with wide eyes, Negan implores him to answer him promptly and accurately. "What the _fuck_ happened to her?!"

Dwight shifts his weight uneasily from foot to foot, and he knows damn well that the clock is ticking. "I…"

"She was eating. That's it. She was eating and then…" Simon steps forward, answering for the sake of not only saving Dwight's skin (not that he cares, really), but so that Arat can get whatever help that she may need to regain her health. As Simon halts his steps to come to stand beside Dwight, the look on his face says all that Negan needs to know. It isn't good.

"What was it?" It's then that Arat begins to cough, the sound soon muted by a gargling noise as vomit begins to spew from her mouth. Negan curses under his breath as he helps her onto her side to prevent her from choking. "What did she eat," he screams out, his focus on the woman on the floor beside him.

"I, I don't know! The pork!" Dwight is quick to respond this time, and an uneasy look is exchanged with Simon just before realization dawns on them.

"Jesus Christ." Simon lifts a hand to rake his fingers through his thinning hair, tugging on the short stands before dropping his hand down at his side. "It's the pork from Ezekiel."

It's as if the air has been sucked out of the room, and though he hadn't touched a single piece of that pork himself, Negan feels as sick as Arat looks. He isn't sure exactly what the fuck the self-proclaimed king had done to the meat, but he knows now that he's made a grave mistake in giving the plumper than usual pigs to his people, let alone _her_. "Gather everyone up. Get in the truck and pay a visit to the Kingdom." Negan's voice is now void of emotion, and though he looks down at a now motionless Arat, he feels as if he's miles away from his body. _This is what shock must feel like_ , he thinks to himself.

Without argument, rebuttal, or any form of response, Dwight and Simon vacate the empty cafeteria, leaving Negan to tend to Arat. A hiss of air, the sound barely audible, escapes Arat just as her muscles loosen beneath Negan's hold. He isn't one to cry, but if he was, Negan is sure as all hell that he'd tear the fuck up right now. It's a sickening feeling, to know that the one person he trusted fully is now gone, the lifeless body in front of him nothing more than a shell of the person that once was. No more would he hear her smart quips and quick-fire responses. Only death could silence her smart mouth, it would seem. No sooner had he finished his thought, movement from below captures his attention once more. Slowly, Arat pushes herself onto her back from her former position on her side, and when his gaze meets hers, Negan knows what must be done. Her once lively, chocolate-colored irises have since glazed over with a milky white. It's not his Arat that peers up at him any longer. Reaching behind him to retrieve the butterfly knife from his back pocket, he resolves to make this quick for both himself and for her. He wouldn't dare use Lucille on her. Even in death, he respects her far too much.


End file.
